


Saints Swimming in Our Sins

by trespresh



Series: I'm Half-Doomed, You're Semi-Sweet [13]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, Len's criminal side is showing, M/M, Off-Screen Murder, Shmoop, The Royal Flush Gang - Freeform, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-17 23:29:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5889301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trespresh/pseuds/trespresh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re nearing the main entrance to the warehouse. Len stops and turns to face Barry. “Listen. You’re not here as the Flash,” he says quietly. “Let me do the talking. Don’t say anything, don’t do anything.”</p><p>Barry rolls his eyes. “I’m not one of your Rogues, Len. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”</p><p>(In which Barry accompanies Len on Rogue business. Things go wrong.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saints Swimming in Our Sins

**Author's Note:**

> I adore all of you, especially [her](http://that-pumpkinspicewhitegirl.tumblr.com/) ♥ Now, who's ready for some angst? *raises both hands*
> 
> Characters belong to DCU, title belongs to Fall Out Boy.

“What exactly are you planning to do with that?”

It’s not often that Len is surprised by anyone, but the sound of Barry’s voice—or rather, the self-assured, over-exaggerated bark of the Flash—makes him jump. He knows for a fact that Barry had been sound asleep, stretched out and snoring in Len’s bed when Len had crept out less than an hour ago. He clenches his teeth and sighs sharply through his nose, squaring his shoulders so Barry can’t see him pluck four vials of dull green liquid from their stand before he pulls his hand back from the cracked safe.

Len turns around and his free hand sweeps up in a grand gesture, drawing Barry’s attention away from the other hand dropping the stolen vials into his back pocket.

“You got me,” he says, smiling innocently like Barry _didn’t_ just catch him breaking into the pharmaceutical sector of Mercury Labs. He’s here for a reason and even with those big puppy-dog eyes, Barry’s not going to stop him. “I thought you were asleep.”

Those pretty gray eyes look at him in suspicion. “What are you doing here, Len?”

Len decides to play it off casually. “I was _trying_ to complete a job.” He looks around dramatically before smirking at Barry. “It’s like you don’t know me at all.”

Barry shakes his head. He glances around and sees a camera perched on an opposite wall, though its light isn’t blinking. _Dead_ , he thinks, and his hand twitches up to pull back the cowl. “I _do_ know you, which is why I’m surprised you’re here.”

Len’s eyes narrow. “What does that mean?”

He gestures around them. “The R&D department of Mercury Labs isn’t exactly your M.O. There’s no money to be made off of anything here,” Barry shrugs and flits forward into Len’s space (and he’s a little disappointed when Len doesn’t even flinch at the movement and the sudden appearance of Barry, a mere foot in front of him). Barry leans in and adds quietly, “Especially those vials in your pocket.”

Len just stares at him, smirking slightly, his head tilted because he’s impressed with Barry’s logic, not that he’ll ever admit it. “You’re proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

Barry grins like he can’t help himself. “Kind of,” he says. “Seriously, what were you planning on doing with those?”

Len’s eyes don’t waver, narrowed and with a hint of annoyance. Being a criminal was so much easier when he didn’t have an irritatingly attractive hero trying to play twenty-questions with him.

He settles for as vague an answer as he can. “They’re for a friend.”

It’s Barry’s turn to narrow his eyes. “You don’t have friends, you have accomplices.”

“Ouch,” Len snorts. “I prefer the term ‘business associates.’”

“Either way, put them back,” Barry says, pointing toward the safe, still open behind Len.

Len smiles sweetly to hide his irritation, a trick he learned from Lisa. “Yes, darling.”

“Don’t call me that,” Barry groans as he watches Len pull three vials from his pocket and turn to replace them in the safe.

“Alright, now that you’ve had enough of ruining my plans for one night,” Len grumbles, slamming the safe shut and spinning the dial, “Will you shut up and take me home now?”

Barry grins at him then, so lopsided and trusting in a way Len doesn’t deserve, because Barry doesn’t notice Len’s hand dropping to his side, pushing the fourth vial deeper into his back pocket.

One out of four will have to do.

+

Len’s pillows are truly wonderful. They’re soft and warm and smell a little bit like Barry, which is why, when he wakes the next morning, he ignores the smell of fresh coffee wafting in from the kitchen in favor of curling further into the pillows and inhaling the scent of Barry instead.

He’s almost asleep again when the bed dips.

“Get up, I made coffee.”

Barry might be the devil, Len thinks sleepily. They both are unfairly tempting, and Barry _does_ wear ridiculous amounts of red, and, well. Len has always been a fan of sin.

“Get _up_ ,” Barry scolds playfully, kicking at Len’s foot.

Len groans into his pillow. “Go ‘way.”

When the smell of the coffee grows stronger, Len cracks an eye open to see Barry holding a mug under his nose and wearing a stupid, triumphant grin. Len kind of wants to hit him.

“Quit being domestic,” he grumps, but sits up and takes the mug anyway.

Barry ignores him and crosses his legs, sipping from his own mug thoughtfully. “So since you’re awake, I was thinking—” Len hums, _here we go_ , “—we could go out to breakfast, maybe. That new IHOP just opened on the West Side and it’s getting good reviews. Or, I don’t work until this afternoon so we could skip breakfast and go out to lunch somewhere later? Oh! Or maybe—”

Len is much too tired for Barry’s rambling. He zones out and sips his coffee—which is irritatingly well-made—and watches Barry wave a hand around, chattering about something or other. He’s wearing this unwarranted, excited grin as he talks, eyes bright and far too alert for the current hour, and Len can’t help but simply watch him smile.

Len is used to working under the cover of darkness; thieves thrive in the shadows. But this man, cross-legged and bubbling in front of him, is pure light and crackling energy—a perfect match for the powers he possesses. _Sunshine personified_ , Len’s mind supplies unhelpfully, and while he sits and watches the bright happiness that the kid exudes, a wave of guilt hits him, not for the first time in these past few weeks.

He is not what Barry deserves.

The thought punches him hard in the chest, dropping an odd, unsettling weight into the pit of his stomach. Why does he feel so disappointed?

He swallows the lump in his throat down with a swig of coffee and decides to deal with it later. When he forces himself to focus, he sees Barry looking at him expectantly.

“I—what?”

Barry’s smile falters. “I was just saying—I mean. I was thinking we could do something,” he says, his cheeks flushing endearingly. “I mean. We just never go out anywhere.”

Len smirks, “What’re you talking about? We went out last night.”

Barry chuckles and kicks at Len’s foot again. “Shut _up_ , I stopped you from _stealing_ something,” he teases. “You know what I mean.”

Len nods, leaning back against the headboard. “Yeah, yeah. Thing is, you know why we can’t.” He cards a hand over his buzzed head, hating the way Barry deflates a little. “You have a secret identity; I don’t. The CCPD know who I am, and they’d know exactly who you’re hanging around with if anyone saw us.”

“Yeah, I know,” Barry says quietly. “But what about, I don’t know, the movies? It’s dark there, no one would see us. Or like, I know this bowling alley that’s really laid back, no one would say anything, and—what? Why’re you looking at me like that?”

Len chuckles, quirking an eyebrow. “You want to go bowling?”

Barry laughs and chucks a pillow at him. “Well it sounds stupid when _you_ say it.”

“Sounded stupid when you said it, too,” Len says, smiling so Barry knows he’s only kidding. Kind of. “Tonight’s actually not a good night.”

“Why, what’s tonight?”

Len sighs, debating how much to tell him. “I have a…meeting. With a friend.”

This perks Barry’s interest. His eyes narrow and he leans forward. “The same _friend_ you were trying to steal from Mercury for?”

Len rolls his eyes. He’s sharing a bed with his supposed enemy, talking business over coffee. When did this become his life? “None of your business.”

Barry frowns at him, “Len.”

His voice is sharp when he says, “This is _work_ , Barry. It’s not your concern.”

Barry, stubborn as all hell in his obnoxious do-gooder ways, doesn’t back down. “Cold’s business is the Flash’s concern.”

They glare at each other for a moment. Len is aware of how ridiculous they would seem to an outsider—both shirtless and drinking coffee in bed, this conversation looking for all the world like a lovers’ spat. He’s disgusted with himself when he sighs in defeat.

“You’re absolutely insufferable,” he grumbles. “Yes, _that_ friend.”

Barry, for his part, does a shit job at hiding his victorious smirk. “Who is it?”

Len glares. When did he become such a pushover for this kid? “The Royal Flush Gang.”

Barry’s eyes widen in confusion. “I didn’t know they were still in Central City.”

“Yes, well,” Len says as he throws the blankets off himself and heads for the kitchen, hearing Barry follow. “There’s plenty you don’t know about underground crime in Central.”

Len sets his empty mug in the sink and promptly feels Barry’s chest against his back. The kid’s fingers trail around to rest on his stomach, vibrating lightly in the way he knows Len can’t deny. His chin hooks over Len’s shoulder so Len can feel warm puffs of breath on his neck; Barry hums quietly and Len can feel the noise thrumming through his back, and god _damnit_ , Barry is _definitely_ the devil.

“Good thing I have an insider, then, huh?”

“Yeah, right,” Len snorts.

Barry hums again, his warm, stupid fingers still pressing lightly into Len’s skin, and he drops a kiss to Len’s shoulder. “I’m coming with you tonight.”

“No, you’re not.”

More soft kisses are pressed into his shoulder, trailing across the nape of his neck. Len’s cock twitches traitorously.

“ _No_.”

Those wickedly vibrating fingers sneak down to rest just under the waistband of the front of Len’s boxers.

“Come on, Len. Please,” Barry breathes into his neck. Len doesn’t mean to lean back against Barry’s chest or to rest his head back on Barry’s shoulder, but _god_ , Barry can be just as manipulative as any criminal when he wants to be.

Barry’s hips push forward against Len, his fingers tightening and vibrating just a little harder so Len’s trapped between Barry’s hips and hands. He sighs shakily, eyes fluttering closed when Barry nips at his neck, and really, he can’t be blamed for giving in.

“ _Fine_ ,” he says, “but you’re not wearing that stupid suit.”

Barry chuckles into his skin and his fingers finally— _finally_ —dip further into Len’s boxers in reward.

+

“What exactly is this meeting _about_?”

They’re making their way down a dimly lit hallway around the outer edges of an abandoned warehouse, a few blocks into Central’s warehouse district; Len positions himself strategically so he’s a half-step in front of Barry, and Barry lets him take the lead.

“A potential alliance,” Len mutters, supremely uncomfortable with Barry’s presence.

On one hand, his—relationship?—with Barry is one part of his life, and Cold and the Rogues are another. There is no part of him that enjoys mixing the two; knowing who Barry is and allowing him to tag along on Rogue business for his own heroic agenda is unsettling and counterproductive to trying to form an alliance with the Royal Flush Gang.

On the other hand, and far more importantly, Len despises the idea of Barry being in danger because of him. Of course, Len knows better than anyone how capable Barry is of looking after himself. He’d gone toe-to-toe with the Flash and lost more times than he cares to admit, but.

The memory of Barry unconscious on the ground a month ago, the bruises coloring his skin the next day—it’s all still so fresh in Len’s mind, still makes his stomach turn when Barry grins over at him like he’s all but forgotten the whole thing ever happened.

Len hasn’t forgotten, and he’s not willing to let it happen again.

“Will all three of them be here?” Barry’s asking, and Len forces himself to focus.

“Five,” he corrects, and when Barry makes a noise of confusion, adds, “There’s five of them. King, Queen, and Jack. Then there’s Ten, and I don’t think you’ve met their leader. Goes by Ace.”

“How clever,” Barry says, and Len can practically _hear_ him rolling his eyes.

“Villains and their shticks, as you know,” Len smirks, positioning his goggles over his eyes and resting his hand on the Cold gun at his hip.

Barry chuckles and lifts a hand to snap the band of the goggles against Len’s head at super-speed. “You’re all ridiculous. Every one of you.”

Len smacks Barry’s hand away, making Barry laugh harder. “Says you, running around in a skin-tight red suit,” he grumbles.

“As if you’re complaining about it,” Barry says.

Well. No, Len’s not.

They’re nearing the main entrance to the warehouse. Len stops and turns to face Barry. “Listen. You’re not here as the Flash,” he says quietly. “Let me do the talking. Don’t say anything, don’t do anything.”

Barry rolls his eyes. “I’m not one of your Rogues, Len. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

There are times when Len is forcibly reminded of the fact that Barry is the Flash—petulant and stubborn and clearly fond of pushing every one of Len’s buttons.

“Barry—” he warns, and Barry puts his hands up.

“ _Fine_ , I know. I’m just here to observe.”

Len nods curtly and spins on his heel, and when he traipses through the warehouse entrance, it’s with the easy swagger of Captain Cold.

“Sorry I’m late,” he calls out in Cold’s low, carefree drawl.

Five people wait in the center of the mostly empty room, all of them the picture of ease. Three of them—two men and a woman—sit at a worn table playing a card game (Barry hides a snort— _criminals_ , _jeez_ ) while another man stands behind them, sneaking glances at the sitting woman’s hand of cards. The fifth person—a dainty woman with short dark hair—leans against the table, facing Len and Barry as they come closer.

“You had us worried you weren’t going to show, Cold,” she says, her voice light. She glances at Barry. “Who’s your friend?”

Len gazes sidelong at Barry, who stands a few footsteps behind him. “I said I would be here, and here I am. I don’t break promises,” Len says in Cold’s voice, pointedly ignoring her question about Barry.

She studies him for a few moments as if waiting for an answer to her question, the others behind her stopping their card game to look up. Len glares back and she seems to give in, shrugging.

“I don’t think you’ve met my associates. Ten, Jack, Queen,” she says, gesturing behind herself at the three sitting at the table, “and King,” her hand lifting to motion toward the man standing behind the table.

Which leaves—

“I make it a point to know who I’m going into business with, Ace,” Len says irritably, and Ace just smiles in a way that she seems to think could pass for innocent.

“Speaking of business,” she simpers, “were you able to acquire what we requested?”

Len can feel Barry’s eyes boring into him as he pulls the stolen vial of dull green liquid from the pocket of the parka. Len has to work to hide his triumphant smirk as he holds it up for them all to see. “I got a little… _held up_ while retrieving them. I hope one will be enough,” he says lazily, and he so badly wants to turn around and see Barry’s face right now as he realizes he hadn’t actually stopped Len from stealing last night.

Barry, for his part, fumes. He kind of wants to punch every stupid criminal in the room.

“One will be plenty,” Ace says, and there’s something about her smirk that sets off warning bells in the back of Barry’s mind. Her eyes are predatory and victorious as she motions behind herself; Queen rises from her seat to move toward Len.

Len pulls the vial back, out of reach, and lifts a hand to stop Queen. He tuts, “We had an agreement. I steal the prototype of activated Clostridium for you, and you make yourselves available as allies to the Rogues.”

Barry freezes— _Clostridium botulinum_? His heart beats a little faster when he realizes what the vial in Len’s hand is capable of; he wonders if Len knows—

Len offers a smirk toward Ace, tilting his head. “Now, I don’t care who you’re intending to inflict botulism on. To each criminal, his—or her—own,” he says lightly, and Ace’s eyes narrow but her smirk doesn’t waver. She meets Len’s stare evenly, and Barry stomach drops because Len _knows_ what he’s handing over to them. He considers darting forward to grab the vial from Len, but he can’t blow their cover.

 _Don’t do it, Len_ , he thinks. _Don’t give it to her_.

Ace smiles sweetly. “We would love nothing more than to work with the Rogues, Cold.”

Len nods once and holds the vial out to Queen. She takes it and darts back to the table, dropping the vial into Ace’s outstretched hand. Ace sighs, looking down at it lovingly, and when she raises her eyes back to Len and Barry, there’s a new, smug fire there that makes Barry’s veins spark with lightning.

He’s dealt with enough criminals to trust his gut, and knows— _something is wrong here_.

Ace tilts her head. “Of course,” she says, an edge to her voice that replaces any semblance of sweetness that had been there before, “I want to work alongside the Rogues. However, my gangs answer to me, and I answer to no one.” She blinks slowly, her smirk widening, and lightning thrums through every nerve in Barry’s body. “So I’m sorry to say, we won’t need _you_. You’ll understand, I’m sure, being a businessman yourself. It’s nothing personal, Cold.”

She whips a gun from a hidden holster and fires it with unparalleled aim, and she’s quick but Barry’s—well. The world stutters into slow motion.

He can see the recoil shake her arm, sees the puff of gun powder surrounding the .22 in her small hand. He sees the bullet inching through dead air, and when he looks over, Len’s hand is just barely reaching the Cold gun at his hip. He’ll be too late.

Barry darts forward and plucks the bullet from the air just a few inches from Len’s forehead, and he stares at it for what feels like an eternity, still blazing hot between his fingers. He looks back up at Ace with lightning in his eyes, and the world trips back into real time.

Len breathes heavily next to him, blinking in confusion before he looks over at the bullet in Barry’s hand; an unreadable look falls over his features like a curtain. Ace’s eyes are wide, shock and wonder fighting for room on her face, and behind her, Queen, Jack, and Ten stare with open mouths. King lifts a hand to point shakily at Barry, and Barry can’t help but notice that the five of them look considerably less at ease, now that they know exactly who Len’s brought with him.

“He’s—kid’s the _Flash_ —” King’s outcry is cut short when Barry zips forward, and with a quick but powerful left hook to his cheek, King slumps to the floor, out cold. He makes quick work of Ace, Queen, Jack, and Ten, and flits back to Len’s side.

The Royal Flush Gang know who he is, what he looks like—this is _not good_.

Len looks murderous. He carefully pulls the Cold Gun from the holster at his hip, his eyes cold and unwavering on the unconscious gang on the floor.

“Barry, you need to leave,” he commands, firm and dripping with Cold’s quiet confidence. Barry stares between his face and the gun.

“What’re you going to do?”

“Nothing they don’t deserve.” He’s still using Cold’s voice, and the dangerous calm of it sends a chill over Barry’s skin.

“Len—”

“Barry, I know we have a deal, but not only did they just make an attempt on my life,” notes of unbridled, unchecked fury show through the cracks in the calm of his voice, and this side of Len _scares_ Barry, “but they now know who you are. If you think they won’t _talk_ , you’re wrong. They are the scum of Central City and if they think they can save their own asses by telling the CCPD who the Flash is, they will do it.”

Barry shakes his head, feeling like maybe he’s drowning with the way he can’t breathe, the way his head spins with the awful turn this night has taken.

“Len, no. I didn’t become a hero so people would _die_ to keep my secret—” he tries weakly, but Len lets out a growl of frustration and turns blazing eyes on him.

“Lucky for you, I’m not a hero,” he barks. “What about when they tell the police that you, Barry Allen, _the Flash_ , was here with _me_? Then what?”

He glares at Barry for a moment, and Barry’s shoulders sag a little, his heart beating fast because Len’s words are true, _shit_ , but he can’t let Len just—he _can’t_ —but he can’t come up with anything that overrides Len’s analysis of the situation. His heart sinks, his stomach flipping nauseatingly at the thought of the CCPD, of Captain Singh and Cisco and _Joe_ , finding out about him and Len. He struggles to breathe, his head full of selfish thoughts, and he doesn’t stop Len from stalking toward the limp bodies on the ground.

“Now get out of here so I can protect us both,” Len says, crouching next to Ace. She’s just beginning to stir awake, and Barry bolts.

He barely makes it outside the warehouse before he throws up, still clutching that warm little bullet in his fist.

+

When Len crawls into bed next to him an hour later, it’s with carefully calculated movements like he doesn’t know how close Barry will allow him to get. He settles back against the pillows with a mumbled, “It’s taken care of,” and waits.

Barry doesn’t look at him, doesn’t even lift his head off the pillows. “I’m not going to thank you for this. I can’t.”

Len sighs, unsurprised. “I don’t expect you to. But _I_ can thank you. You saved my life, Barry.” After a minute of no response from Barry, a heavy weight settles in Len’s stomach. “Do you regret it?” He asks quietly.

Barry looks up at him in surprise, sits up so he’s facing Len. “What—of course not. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” He rubs a hand over his face tiredly. “I just. This is my fault.”

Fierceness flickers in Len’s eyes, but it’s not aimed at Barry. He wraps a hand gently around Barry’s wrist, thumbing absent circles into the soft skin. “It’s not your fault. If they hadn’t tried to double-cross me, this wouldn’t have happened. They got what they deserved.”

Barry flinches. “Can you stop saying that? Please?” He asks in a small voice, and Len just kind of—deflates.

He thinks back to this morning when Barry had sat in this same spot, all buzzing energy and bright happiness, and that weird punching feeling hits his gut again. This guilt that doesn’t belong to Barry, the deep frown that looks wrong on his face—Barry deserves so much better than this. He’s too _good_ for Len, in more ways than one.

Len looks at him sadly. He lifts his free hand up to curl around the back of Barry’s neck, pulls him in so he can rest his forehead against Barry’s, and Barry just follows Len’s lead easily like he needs the firm hold, the contact.

“This isn’t on you, Barry,” Len breathes, and Barry closes his eyes, letting out a shaky sigh.

“It’s the worst part about the job,” Barry whispers, and his lips twitch into an almost-smile but there’s no humor there. “When people die because of me.”

Len heart aches. He sighs. “I should’ve just taken you bowling.”

He’s dead-serious but Barry laughs wetly anyway. Len lays back and pulls Barry against him; Barry lets himself be tucked against Len’s side, slinging an arm across Len’s waist. Len presses his lips to Barry’s forehead in a not-quite kiss, and the silence that falls over them is heavy and suffocating until it’s not—until it’s just them, just this kind-hearted boy nestled against him, with too much weight on his shoulders and more trust in Len than Len deserves.


End file.
